The Boy In The Snow
by PeanutButterPie
Summary: Peter notices an odd boy while he's playing in the snow.


**A/N: This is my first story so please leave a comment saying if you liked it or not! Well anyways, I like creepy things, and I like creepy** **little boys, and I like Hetalia, so I combined it to get this.**

Peter was only eight years old when he first saw the Russian boy.

It was a cold, snowy day, but even still the boy was able to convince Arthur to let him play in the field, at least for just a little bit. The frosty snow covered the grass and ice crackled under his feet as he walked, shivering. It was freezing outside, and the whip-like wind did nothing to help Peter's cold cheeks, but he treaded on.

Once he had found a nice spot, Peter sat down on the snowy ground, tingles running up his spine as the cold water seeped into his pants. It was uncomfortable, yes, but worth it. His small hands got to work at forming a nice, round mound of snow, delight filling his eyes. He didn't know what he was building quite yet, but he knew whatever it was, it would be spectacular! Or, as spectacular as he could get it with the harsh winds blowing his creation to bits over and over again.

It took him about half an hour to finally make the first, large circle. Peter grinned proudly as he patted the snow down to a smooth texture with his mittens. It had gotten colder somewhere along the way, but he didn't really notice. His teeth were chattering and his fingers were shaking even inside the warmth of his gloves. Out of all the things he had bundled up in, he had forgotten to put on his scarf!

Peter stood up, his legs wobbling as his wet pants stuck to the back of his thighs. It really had gotten colder! A lot colder. The snow had picked up and was falling heavily, the winds had gotten stronger, and before long Peter was shivering as he tried to make his way back home. His face was now a rosy red, beginnings of a bad case of frostbite spreading on his pink cheeks.

Though, despite the blizzard that blinded him, Peter saw a figure in the distance.

From what he could see, it was small, like him. Probably a little boy stuck in the snow too, trying desperately to make his way back home, wishing for a cup of warm cocoa and maybe a burnt scone or two.

"Hey!" He called. He received no answer. The boy was just…Standing there. Like he was frozen or something.

"Hey, I'm talking to you! Can't you hear me?!"

This time, the boy craned his neck, looking uninterested. Peter waved his arms around rapidly, yelling things made inaudible by the wind. But it was as if the boy had heard him anyway, because he started to make his way through the high snows to meet Peter halfway.

As he got closer, Peter noticed that the boy had to be about 12 or so. He was short and his hair was white like snow, his eyes a light purple that gave off a distant, glossy look. Though it was freezing cold outside, his cheeks were not a dark shade of red like Peter's, they were pale. He wore no earmuffs, no mittens, just a long coat and a scarf that flowed behind him with the wind. When Peter looked down, he saw that the boy had—Had no shoes!

The boy laughed quietly, curling his toes in the cold, wet soil. "You are surprised, da?" He asked, a wide smile adorning his face. Peter nodded slowly, mouth hanging open in awe. "A…Aren't you cold?!" He all but screamed, eyes wide. He only received another laugh, and though it was, as Arthur liked to say, "Quieter than a mouse's sneeze", the wind seemed to silence itself when he spoke.

"I am not cold," He said, taking a step forward effortlessly, as if the snow that reached his knees was nothing but air. He took another step, and then another, and then another, until he was right in front of Peter, close enough to touch noses. The boy was taller than him, while Peter stood at a mere 4"1, this kid looked like he was almost 4"11! Peter peered up at him, blue eyes shining with curiosity. The boy he smiled down at him, a friendly one, but his eyes said something different, a sort of sadness.

He reached out to touch Peter's face, a laugh, half amazement, half disbelief, escaping his lips, as if he were touching an embodiment not quite real. The British boy gave him a confused look, cocking his head to the side inquisitively. "Why, what are you doing? Is there something on my face?" He frowned, crossing his arms.

The boy gave a chuckle and shook his head. "No, no, there's nothing wrong with your face, boy." His hand retreated to his side once again, but he continued to stare, and he made no attempt at stepping backward to give Peter some space. "It's just that, up until now, I haven't seen another human in centuries."

It got awkwardly silent, the kind of awkward that' just _painfully _awkward. Not only was the boy literally breathing down his neck, but he had the scariest grin Peter had ever seen in his life. It stretched from ear-to-ear, like a Cheshire grin. Peter took a few steps back, smiling nervously, though right now the only thing on his mind was how cold his face was.

"Ah, you are cold, da?"

Peter looked up, raising an eyebrow. "How did you know-?"

"Here."

Peter felt an instant warmth around his neck, and looked down. The large scarf the Russian boy had once been wearing was far too big for him, but the boy quickly took care of it by tying it into a knot. "Take my scarf for now. And remember my name, Ivan Braginski, for when I come to reclaim my scarf, the wind will whistle my name and you will surely hear it."

"Oh, well, I'm Peter, but-!"

"I must go now. I apologize, Peter."

"But, Ivan, I can't take this scarf—"

But by the time Peter looked up, Ivan was gone, and it seemed that the blizzard had gone with him.

Peter had just turned 12 years old.

It was exactly the night after his birthday, and as he sat near the windowsill, staring boredly at the soft flurries of snow outside, Arthur came bustling in. Peter immediately perked up, and frowned when he saw his older brother in a coat and tophat. "You're going out?" He asked, crossing his arms disapprovingly.

Arthur chuckled. "You're a big boy, Peter. I'm sure you can handle being home alone for just one night."

Peter looked down, huffing. While it was true, he would be able to take care of himself for the night, he still felt uneasy sitting in the Kirkland Manor all by himself. He usually stayed in his room all day, or wandered into the living room to watch the telly, or sometimes he played with his dollies. He was fine with staying home alone, but…Something just didn't feel right about_ tonight._

It was as if someone was watching him. The wind seemed to call out to him, whispering faintly in his ear. But he didn't want to make Arthur stay home on such a petty issue. "Have fun, then. And don't drink!" Arthur waved him off as he left the room. Peter watched his car leave the driveway from his bedroom window, and immediately, a feeling of nervousness crept up on him.

The wind was harder now, the snow began to fall in large clumps of ice.

Wait a minute! What did he have to be afraid of? He was a big boy!

But even still, the wind howled eerily.

_Pe…Te…r…_

The boy tapped his fingernails on the wooden windowsill, eyes darting back and forth. That…Couldn't have been real, right? There's no way the wind could call his name…It must've been his imagination.

_Pe…Te…r…_

_I'm…Coming….Pe…t…er…_

_I…v…an…Bra…gin…ski…!_

Suddenly the lights flickered and Peter's window flew open from a gust of wind. The closet doors burst open, the clothes inside rattling on their hangers. Peter struggled to close his window, trying hard to win against the harsh wind that flooded the room, making it icy cold. Finally, the window shut and Peter scrambled to close the closet doors, too.

Something caught his eye.

Shoved all the way in the back of his closet was a neatly folded, dusty, old scarf. He reached forward and grabbed it, staring at it curiously. When had he received this scarf? It was definitely not one of Arthur's sewed scarves, and he didn't remember buying it.

_My…Scarf…_

The wind banged against the glass of his window like pounding fists.

_**Give…Me…Back…My…SCARF!**_

The lightbulb bust and Peter stumbled backwards, startled, afraid. It was pitch black now and Peter fumbled around for the wall, his hands desperately flailing in the air until he grabbed hold of something.

But it wasn't a wall.

And when Peter looked up, clutching the tattered scarf in his hands fearfully, he saw something familiar.

A trademark Cheshire grin that stretched from ear-to-ear.

**A/N: It's probably horrible but at least I tried, eh? I had a lot of fun writing this! Please comment if you liked it or disliked it and tell me what I could improve on!**


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